


Mechanoreceptors

by baph0meat, marinarin



Series: nervous system [2]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Blood and Gore, Caretaking, Drugs, M/M, Medical Kink, Slight Canon Divergence, Trust Kink, [sasori voice] nonsexual kink, elaborate and completely unfounded headcanons about deidara's kinjutsu, i mean it's not nsfw but it sure is horny, weird psychosexual pseudo-bdsm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-21 02:33:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16150703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baph0meat/pseuds/baph0meat, https://archiveofourown.org/users/marinarin/pseuds/marinarin
Summary: Sasori's fingers creak around a bottle of rubbing alcohol. The more he swims to what he thinks is the shore of the dilemma, the more he drowns. He chooses to sink. Before a right hand can reach out to undo the bandages, the gloves come off."I will disinfect the area before sedating you locally. Then probe," he says, the joints of his knuckles raising and falling to adapt to the curvature of ribs - lifting Deidara slightly off the ground. "Only then will I be able to tell what's left of you."---deidara fucks himself up on a mission. sasori picks up the pieces, and finds a secret in the debris. they're both horny about it





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first time transcribing a roleplay to fic - i was nervous about it, but marinarin and i have written tens of thousands of words of sasodei. i'm not exaggerating. dozens of thousands. so it seemed like a shame to let it all just collect dust in our docs! i've (baph0meat) written all the deidara pov portions in this fic, and marinarin wrote sasori.
> 
> i thought about reformatting it to be more standard to fic prose, i.e. keeping one pov for much longer chunks - but it also would've seemed like a shame to get rid of the back and forth insights you get in the middle of conversations in this format, so i decided to leave everything as is, including the markers between pov switches, which i thought would make it easier to read. if i'm wrong and that's distracting, please let me know and i'll reformat!
> 
> this is set very early on - before, in our minds, deidara had begun calling sasori “danna,” and before either of them knew the core truths about each other’s bodies.

There’s a phrase one of Deidara’s mentors once recited to him, in the midst of trying to talk him down from a destructive, object-flinging tantrum: “Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.” 

The sentiment didn't stop him from later cornering the student who he felt had been ripping off his work and breaking their fingers, and it wasn't until later that he learned the idiom had been given to him incomplete. The full saying suits his tastes much better:  _ Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery that mediocrity can pay to greatness. _

Those are the words in his head as he fends off the persistent strikes of a Tsukigakure shinobi, each strike punctuated by a small explosion. It pisses him off. It pisses him off, and he shouldn't be fighting at close range like this - taijutsu isn't his strong suit, and his opponent’s explosions are weaker but far more precise than his own - but one of the dipshits keeping Sasori busy has some kind of wind shield up, and he can’t get any altitude without getting slapped out of the air like a basketball, and most importantly he wants to snap this poseur’s hands off at the wrists.

One of said hands flies at his face, and without thinking he palms it down, and then it detonates and Deidara  _ screams. _

He feels heat, and pain that knocks him breathless, and then he hears blood splattering at his feet. He feels his face contorting into a feral mask, nose like a snarling muzzle and teeth bared, and the other shinobi has taken too long to absorb the success of his hit, because there's an opening. Deidara grabs the wrist that just shredded his side and arm, sinks his teeth into it, and yanks. His voice comes out a shriek with torn edges. “ _ Mediocre!” _

His opponent lurches forward and Deidara slams the side of his face into the ground. His hand flashes from wrist to head, fingers digging into the man’s scalp, and a snow-white centipede crawls from between his teeth.

The man only gets to scream for a moment as the sculpture forces its way in before Deidara springs back and howls his release. The explosion is disproportionate. Rubble from the rock underfoot knocks him back further, along with a sizeable splatter of gore, and Deidara’s left reeling against an outcropping.

“Piece of shit.” He’s wild-eyed and dazed, arm hanging limply at his side; a trail of blood stretches in a broken smear from him to the decimated body like a calligraphic brushstroke. “Piece of shit. Piece of  _ shit.” _

***

Sasori despises how much of his detail oriented nature can make him lose sight of the big picture. His spite turns to rage when minute details bring nothing of use to him, simply bleeding his attention. Nothing could stop the mental categorization of detonation sounds ever since their first combat engagements;  _ short, long, low, high, flat, reverberant _ \- all in his head. This useless map, ingrained. A waste of space. There hadn't been an occasion where it had been required aside from being able to pinpoint exact location, which annoyed Deidara when he thought himself invisible and subsequently brought Sasori a certain level of amusement. Nothing substantial. 

Its as he plays with this fool, who so eagerly walks to his death as he drains his own chakra with this air shield toy, that a blast follows a scream and his weakness rapidly becomes an advantage.  _ Short, sharp. Debris. _ He thinks, automatically. _ Close range injury. Nuisance. _

Sasori clicks his teeth, echoing it through the distorted voice, and ends the match quickly by dirtying his hands - never his preferred choice. He would've revelled in this rat's squirming. Hiruko's tail slices the air, the poison in its blades made redundant as it cuts up flesh and spine.  _ Vulgar _ , he thinks. _ Boring _ . But he's left with no choice.

"Unnecessary." Is all he speaks once he's besides the other. Hiruko's shell cracks its opening. This area is deserted enough, he judges. No witnesses. And it is unclear whether the other can move. "I won't entertain excuses. Let me see." 

***

“You saw it, right, Sasori?” The name comes without an honorific. Deidara’s rage is still incandescent, and he’s not paying attention. “You saw how he looked at me, right?”

His eyes are fixed on the ruined body, now just a smear ending in two legs. “He thought he was better than me.”

Deidara’s good hand clenches on his tattered robes, chewing the fabric fitfully. His cloak, shredded and burnt, reveals the worst of the injuries - his arm is miraculously still attached, but it’s dangling as if dislocated, and the flesh is in ribbons. His side isn't much better, from rib to hip. “And did you hear the fucking  _ shit _ he was on about?”

His chest is heaving. He can’t seem to close his mouth. His voice pitches high, mocking and drawn. “ _ I’ll protect my village from the likes of you. _ The  _ hell _ does that mean, huh? Sasori? The likes of me?” He spits and it's all blood. “I hate that shit. I hate it. Who the FUCK’S he trying to sound so cool for? Huh?”

Deidara’s head turns, slightly, towards the edge of the cliff, where far below the village spreads itself along the coast. “We should go down there.” He takes an unsteady step forward. Blood spills over his hip like wine out of a tipped cup. “I want to put his precious village in a  _ fucking crater.” _

***

" _ Quiet _ ." He cuts in, a tug of his index finger enough to pull at restraining threads on the other's ankles - stopping this nonsensical vendetta excursion of his before it can even begin. "Further engagement in your condition is suicide. We will retreat."   
Once out of Hiruko, Sasori approaches. The weight of his gaze making it clear enough to the other that there will be no discussion. "You shouldn't concern yourself with how vermin looks at you. Nor with how it speaks." His monotone seems enhanced, as if choosing to project the complete opposite of what Deidara is displaying -this raw babbling. It is such a contrast it borders on a forced disconnect, one he goes into when he believes his reactions are all but calculated. He cannot give himself this luxury right now, he thinks. Not with the other in this state. His eyes travel to blood.   
Sasori brushes off at the near disintegrated lapel, bringing what's left of the sleeve down with it. "You tore ligaments." He comments. “This will take days."

***

“Retreat?  _ Days? _ ” In full form, maybe Deidara could have pulled away from Sasori’s threads, but weakened by blood loss and only half-present, his resistance is barely detectable. “Fuck that. FUCK that.” 

He sways and just barely catches himself, legs trembling under the strain of holding his own weight. “Call Kakuzu,” he rasps. “He’ll just patch me up. He’s done it before.”

And it's true - the swaths of fabric hanging off his hip reveal a trail of crude, ugly stitches down his thigh, and a another batch curves around his ribs and over his shoulder. It’s Kakuzu’s work, hasty and careless, though the wounds don't match any of the injuries Deidara could have sustained on the handful of missions he and Sasori have run together. 

“I’m sure he’s not doing anything  _ important _ ,” Deidara adds. His words are starting to slur. “The old bitch.”

***

Sasori's wrist moves once in a brutal motion. Something far too excessive, far too rash - forcing Deidara off his feet and leaving him to crumble onto the ground. Had he done such a thing in combat, he'd be revealing all of himself at once. There is a mistaken belief that, somehow, doing this in privacy may not carry the same connotation of self-betrayal.   
"Exposure to botched craft is not a good thing to get accustomed to." He says, looking down at the other - under his eye level for the first time in a while. His right hand grabs at the leftover material as he crouches down, ripping it off to shreds. Improvised bandaging for a tourniquet. "Your blood loss is substantial. The miser knows nothing of how and when one's body drifts to the unconscious. Of clots or anesthesia. He's had no need to learn."     
As the knot is tied around the damaged arm Sasori's gloved hand slides under his clothing to reveal a needled vial, his gaze sharp. "You will sit still, and you will not give me lip about it."

***

Whatever angry retaliation could have been expected after Sasori’s blunt outburst doesn't come. Deidara doesn't have the energy. There’s one loud cry of pain as he hits the ground, throaty and desperate, and then he lays listlessly on his back as Sasori leans over him, his hands panting softly by his head. 

“What is that?” Deidara blinks blearily, trying to keep his gaze focused on the vial even as his consciousness wavers at the edges. His mind, fragmented and distracted as it may be, jumps immediately to Sasori’s known fondness for poisons, and then deliriously to the gossipy stories Hidan has told him, of Sasori’s partners between Orichimaru and himself meeting an untimely end. He doesn't voice the concern - he's not lucid enough to even put it into words - so nothing gets through but a hitch in his breathing and a heavy swallow. “Sasori-sensei?” 

The honorific is normally delivered with a heavy coat of sarcasm, preferred to lesser or more common ones that may accidentally carry with them a sense of sincerity just through sheer normalcy - this is the closest it’s ever come to sounding genuine.

***

"A synthetic polymer. Laced with sedatives." He says, lifting what's left of the damaged arm - supporting it at the elbow. The syringe slides into the exposed skin below the bandages. In and out, no pleasantries. "It'll stabilize clots. Stop the bleeding, give you time. More than enough to contemplate your actions, though I don't expect  _ you _ learning anything from it." Though his tone's vitriol relaxes, there is a provocation in the way the other's body has become an exhibition of poorly executed quick fixes. His eyes stay on the torsos’ curve of stitches, uneven and bulky, and a burning that only bile could produce boils away at his nerve endings. 

"You'll go under soon, don't fight it. It'll cost you your organs if you do." Sasori sits up, gaze away for as long as he can keep it. He'll have to wait for the other to go limp, he cannot risk having the other start his flailing while laying on Hiruko's back. From the corner of his eye he nonetheless keeps an eye on the shaking in Deidara's limbs. He counts down silently, in his head, and uses it for both the task at hand and to bring to a halt his inner turbulence.

***

“Mm-” Deidara barely registers the needle, but then his pupils blow wide, and the mouths on his hands go slack almost immediately. “Oh. Hey.” He can't lift his head, but his one visible eye seeks Sasori out anyway, slurred words curving out of a lopsided smile. “You’re being nice to me.”

It’s not that the pain is easing so much as that his consciousness is becoming so heavy that the pressure blots everything else out. For once, obedience seems incredibly appealing (and right away, not after being wheedled and scolded and complimented into a state of smug complacency.) He doesn't fight, though he does keep mumbling, even as his normally quick tongue starts to soften and slow.

“You’re being  _ super  _ nice. That's so  _ weird.  _ Hey, am I gonna-” Deidara’s head drifts. “Am I gonna get to go in Hiru….”

And he’s out, looking as peaceful as one can when half-coated in gore.

***

Sasori produces a performative exhale the second propofol stops the other's train of thought in its tracks. Out of habit, in a motion so automatic he nearly doesn't catch himself, he checks for a pulse. He recoils instantly at the slow but persistent beats, berates himself for jumbling priorities, and snaps out of it.  _ This is no corpse _ . Once inside Hiruko the maneuvers become easier, physically and mentally. Deidara is slowly wrapped in the ironclad tail, its indents used for swift killing only minutes ago, and placed above the top shell.  _ Twenty minutes, north _ . He thinks, eyes everywhere as he moves Hiruko forward.  _ Mountain grotto. _

The weight of the other's body is discernible as the tail puts him back down upon arrival, laying him down on the flattest surface the environment has to offer. He forcibly shakes the averaged calculations out of his mind. A visual inspection is in order. By the look of it, no one has inhabited it for a long time. There's little to no humidity damping the walls, no loose terrain. Barren rock.  _ Not ideal, but suitable _ . Colder nights are a small price to pay for lower risk of infection, the other will have to agree. Sasori relinquishes the barrier of separation the cocoon-like puppet provides him and steps out, stands still above the other, and waits. He has adrenaline stocked, sure, but he'd rather the other wake naturally. No need in feeding gunpowder to an already overloaded gun.  

***

Pain swims out of the darkness first, then Sasori’s face. Deidara coughs, then immediately spasms at the agony that inflicts on his flank. “Fuck.” 

His good hand flattens against the ground, casting around for information. Dolomite, rich in iron. No clay, though anything in this area would be shit tier anyway, disgusting red mud that he wouldn't even make a dog bowl out of -

He snaps himself out of it. He doesn't need it. Sasori’s here.

“Fuck,” he says again, inquisitively. He blinks, claws at his scope as if underwater, misses by a mile, and falls limp again as the gesture drains the remainder of his still-returning mobility. “ _ Ow _ . Hi. Where’s - are we going. Am I good yet.”

***

"We're in exile for the next three days because a parasite hurt your feelings and used your own distracted flare-up as an opening." He says, gaze lidded and thin. As he eyes the unearthed hidden supplies he never thought would even see the light of day unless he found himself stranded in some godforsaken corner of Suna, he realises just how much of mammoth task this will be with a personality of Deidara's caliber. He cannot afford to give him an inch of  _ anything _ and yet, simultaneously, there is no way he can proceed to tamper with something so delicate with his subtler armor on. Sasori kneels, giving himself time to think as he looks over the other's wounds. The backlash of a lackluster result would surely come from Deidara, and it'd be grating at best. Easily surmountable. His own criticism? Crushing. The consequences of a complete reveal? Unknown. His fingers creak around a bottle of rubbing alcohol. The more he swims to what he thinks is the shore of the dilemma, the more he drowns. He chooses to sink. Before a right hand can reach out to undo the bandages, the gloves come off. 

"I will disinfect the area before sedating you locally. Then probe." He speaks, the joints of his knuckles raising and falling to adapt to the curvature of ribs - lifting the other slightly off the ground. "Only then will I be able to tell what's left of you."   

***

“Didn’t hurt my feelings,” Deidara slurs. His forearm comes to rest over his eyes, and a little bit of his characteristic petulance manages to punch through the drugged haze. “Pissed me off.”

He lifts the arm a little, just enough to attempt to track the movements of Sasori’s hand. “Anyway. Was either my arm or my face.”

He barely registers the pressure of Sasori’s hand against his side, sees only the blur of red on white when he pulls his hand back into view. “Was gonna say I’ve had worse, but….” He lets out a soft sigh as words escape him, his arm dropping back down over his eyes. “Mm. Don't think I actually have.”

Everything is heavy, throbbing pain. It's hard to form sentences, to keep track of them from start to finish. “Are you mad at me?”

***

Sasori raises his head to the other's incoherent words and what he finds and what it does to him is his own fault. He knows the other is incapacitated by a cocktail of drugs and agony and yet there is a sincerity to the way Deidara asks this of him. As if there were a remote possibility of it mattering at the moment. As if it was important. It's not long before he asks himself the same, not taking long in realising he does not have an answer. The closest thing he can relate to is frustration, exhaustion. The most accurate something he cannot identify. His hand retracts instinctively from the touch of skin, like the other is burning. _ Get on with it _ , he thinks. What Deidara makes of his nature once lucid enough, what it does to that almost naive sincerity, he cannot control.

"You were only partially responsible. Brute force should be an unsavoury last resort." Is all he says, all that he knows to be true at this hour. His fingers uncurl from the other's torso, reaching for a rag, bringing it to the other's mouth. "Bite down." He says. If all that he can recall from his own intervention is pins and needles, he can only guess the pain will multiply incessantly for a body of flesh. "The rest cannot be rushed. But for this, I will work quickly."

***

“I was zero percent responsible,” Deidara starts to mumble, and then he registers a command and his mouth is immediately open and waiting under Sasori’s hand. He takes the rag gently, eyes as focused as they can be in this state and never leaving Sasori’s face.

They stay there even as the first drops of alcohol fall and his body jolts in protest, his spine betraying him by arching closer to Sasori’s hands. He’s never been quiet about pain, isn’t ashamed to howl when his body needs it, and the rag can’t fully muffle the hissing shriek tearing its way up his throat. His good hand finds the corner of Sasori’s cloak and clamps down, strung through with desperation, and as soon as he’s grounded by that contact his body tenses enough to still.

***

"Good." Is the word he first finds, and it's immediate at the sight of Deidara complying. Beyond mapping where the drops are falling, measuring the dosage for each overflowing gash, he does not give himself a break from holding the other's stare. The noise scratching its way out the other's mouth is deafening and uncategorizable. He listens to it intently through the cave's echo, his attention diverted only by the sharp tug on his garment. "Good." Immediate, eyes up. "Stay." He says. The process continues. Sasori watches out for signs he's long forgotten to look out for in himself. The purpling of extremities, the paleness, the sudden scorching yet icy sweat. Nothing. Perhaps only the latter. _ Impressive _ crosses his mind before reminding himself of Deidara's youth. The word floats in his mind, aimlessly. Nonetheless, at the first pearls of it on the other's forehead, the worst of the work is done.

The syringe loads. "Inhale." He says, removing the rag from his mouth with a gesture far too slow for his liking - but what is done is done. The needle goes in. "Exhale."

***

Each word of praise snaps his body back to attention, and each command is followed immediately, slowed only by the physical reluctance of Deidara’s own body. The second the pour stops, he goes limp, breathing heavy and eyes glazed. His hand releases Sasori’s coat and gasps for breath against the fabric. 

When he finds Sasori’s eyes again, once his own manage to refocus, he sighs shakily, and smiles.

***

His gaze follows the needlepoint until the last intravenous round is in. He is not prepared for what greets him above the prick points. The smile is so sudden and such a contrast in between the grotesqueness of it all that it looks out of place, and yet it doesn't. Not for him. The smugness in it is so vague, so washed out by sheer exhaustion - but it is still there.  _ Stubborn _ . He thinks, a derisive clicking of teeth sounding everything but. Sounding  _ amused _ . Sasori turns his back to him, arranging the following steps in an attempt at distraction that is getting dangerously close to being labelled as desperate. 

"Your arm should be numb, as should most of the right side of your body." He says, and waits, blaming it on the inexactitude of the unrefined product that is all he can offer to the other. Indecision continues to be the main culprit. He shakes it off. "The pain should have subsided by now. I'll examine you." 

Sasori's hands work slowly, forbidding himself any sudden movement that could betray their inexplicable stuttering. The fingers click as they travel over skin, each repeated like an incessant reminder in his mind. He counts tendons, averages inches of depth for each wound. Begins to formulate questions he's never had to ask another human being other than his former self. Questions of tact and feeling and sensation - all now dulled on his end. And he wonders what use this will be, when he cannot even tell if the temperature is the one the other should be at. An elegant prosthetic.  _ No. _ He shakes it.  _ No _ . "You'll need intervention from mid triceps down. Including your hand. Your torso should heal. I would rather not tamper with what isn't completely gone." His hands pull away, hidden up the bell sleeves. Even if only momentarily, he allows himself pretend. "The light is gone, I won't start tonight. Your body needs healing before it can be scarred again. The rest will be invasive enough. Antibiotics should let you sleep."

***

The relief as the anesthetic sets in is so immense that Deidara is giddy, struggling to stifle giggles throughout Sasori’s entire explanation. 

When he collects himself, he lets his head fall back, regarding Sasori with bubbling humor. “My hand, huh? M’I gonna need dental work, doc?” He laughs at his own joke, brief and breathy, before his voice drops again. “Just kidding,” he says, suddenly looking distracted. “The teeth always grow back. I checked.”

He rides out the ghosts of a few more giggles before going limp again. “Mm. Hey, Sasori?” Deidara shifts a little, instinctively rolling his hip back towards the other’s withdrawn hands. “You’re cold.”

***

"They grow back." Sasori repeats, half in disbelief, half in undistilled curiosity. He's awakened from it by the equivalent of a nervous shock. To his advantage, there is enough room to maneuver given the other's state. His initial recoil at the other's approach, like the one before, doesn't seem to register. His hands move out to busy themselves, cleaning needles, the forgotten rag useful once more. "Am I."

***

“Mhmm.” Deidara manages two more tiny hip-scoots before he’s worn out, and he turns his head to blink slowly at Sasori’s back. “Your hands.”

He yawns. “You should warm up,” he murmurs. “S’that why you wear gloves all the time? Cold hands…” Sleep is sneaking up on him, steady and inescapable, and he frowns as he tries to shake it off. This is the longest Sasori’s ever had to stay near him. 

***

Sasori's hands still over the blade of a scalpel. The volume of how much the other hasn't registered is far bigger than he'd imagined. "Yes." He says, without thinking. "Yes, I suppose." The sound of his own name without anything accompanying, from the other's voice, it is not as dissonant as he'd like it to be. Jarring, but not fully offensive. Almost juvenile from the way it falls out after the concert of laughter. He looks over his shoulder at the other. "Sleep." 

***

“Mm.” It’s gotten so easy to obey him. Deidara’s eyes close, though he keeps talking resolutely. “I don't wanna.” Still, his breathing is slowing. As his mind wanders, former forgotten thoughts float back to the surface of his mind.

“Hey. Hidan told me something.” He’s not sure how quiet his own voice has gotten - it's hard to tell when absolutely everything seems muffled. “About… your other partners. Before me.”

“If you do that to me,” he murmurs, “I’ll be the worst, okay? The worst puppet ever. Super disobedient.” A long few seconds pass, and he drifts off.

***

There are very few times where Sasori has truly not known what to do with himself - this is one of them. The barrage of conflicting reactions that such a statement generates collide all at once, leaving him with nothing to give in return but a vacant stare. He's grateful Deidara's out quickly. It is in the afterhour of the commentary, by himself and in the presence of a few field tools, that something resemblant of smile manifests. Silent, short lived and only partially artificial. Like most of him. _ Brat _ , he thinks. That's all he's ever done at night - think and work. With nothing to occupy him now that the other has been dealt with, this nonsensical pattern of thought continues. At midnight, _ food _ . At dawn,  _ frost _ . His coat drapes over the body of the other. He will elaborate on a reason for such a gesture, later.  _ Later. Later. Later. _


	2. 2

“Ow.” Deidara blinks against the light filtering into the cave. Instinctively, he tries to turn away, and when that sends pain screaming up his side he grabs for the jacket covering him instead, yanking it over his face. “Agh. Ow. Close it.”

The cave floor wasn't kind to his back; he takes mental inventory of his body and finds that everything hurts. “Senseeeeiiii.” His good hand slaps around outside the edge of the coat. “Sasori-senseeeeeeeiiii. Ow, GOD. Where aaaaare you.”

***

" _ Busy _ ." Is all he answers when the incessant babbling begins, left hand waving dismissively in the air as he keeps on working. He refuses to let any of the reassurance the loud nature of Deidara's tone after a night of uncertainty carves in him show. "Daylight began two hours ago," he announces, remotely operating Hiruko to hover over him - cracking its shell to reveal rationed provisions.  "Eat."

_ *** _

“Ugh.” Deidara tries to sit up, and it takes him less than half a second to abandon the attempt. “Shit. I feel like  _ garbage. _ ”

When Hiruko looms over him, his tone changes entirely. “Ohhh,  _ Hiruko _ . Thank you for taking care of me, even though Sasori-sensei refuses to, and is ignoring me to make me suffer.” He looks pointedly at Sasori as he cups Hiruko’s face with his good hand, depositing simultaneous kisses on both his cheekbones.

With that done, he sets to work unwrapping a few packets of food, his inset teeth doing the work for him whenever his hand proves still too groggy from weariness and the last traces of anesthesia. “My arm looks like  _ shit. _ ”

_ *** _

"It bordered on unidentifiable when I started with it," he counters, choosing to turn around and face him at the worst possible timing.  Sasori rolls his eyes away from the theater but has seen enough to have his traitor conscience wonder. He walks over. "This will be your temporary substitute." He speaks, presenting it. A couple curvilinear planks, sanded, polished - joint together to form the artificial base of a forearm. "It has been some time since I have worked from scratch with organics. Caoba would suit the fit much better, make a sturdier set. Vinyl is the ideal, in any case, to be able to endure craft like yours. Nonflammable." His hands travel, tracing the outline. "Unfortunately, the entire valley is pine."

***

Deidara gently pulls Hiruko's head to his chest, his palm depositing kisses on the nape of the puppet’s jointed neck. It’s absent-minded and natural. His eyes follow Sasori’s small hands over the prosthetic, then jump up to Sasori’s face, uncharacteristically unreadable.

“You stayed up all night working on that?” It’s mostly an observation, but enough incredulity works its way into his tone to turn the statement into a proper question. Deidara lets his head tip back, his hair splayed out over the floor, and he’s no longer smiling. 

Eventually something seems to overtake him and he flicks his eyes away, haughty and careless. “It’ll do. It’s beautiful enough. I want actual flesh again eventually, though, so I might go running back to Kakuzu anyway.” 

***

The word  _ enough _ reverberates within him like a pebble thrown into a hollowed mountain. His hands let go of his own work, the sound of it falling against the hard bedrock floor sharp and quick, then screeched splintered agony once it gets crushed under his foot. "Flesh, then." He says, deadpan. His neck cracks loud, almost as if readjusting from a wild malfunction, as he glances out the grotto's entrance. He doesn't bother concealing it. "I will hunt someone of your build and complexion."  Sasori's eyes return to the other, glass reflecting sunlight like fire. "Unlike your alternative."

***

In the moment in which Sasori’s shoe comes down on the device and it explodes into splinters, Deidara’s face falls open in delight.  _ Beautiful, _ he thinks, and he barely notices that the thought makes it past his lips in a whisper. He’s aglow now, all his former aloof posturing discarded, and he watches the line of Sasori’s stiff neck fondly as he speaks. “Well,  _ that _ elevated it, but I can't use it now.”

His fingertip plays along the edge of Hiruko’s bandanna. “You should have signed it, though,” he points out. “I wouldn't have worn it without your seal anyway.”

“Still.” He hooks his finger, pulls the fabric down, and his smile is secretive as he tilts his palm against Hiruko’s jointed mouth. “Thaaaank you.”

***

The strained tightrope-like sensation at the sight of the other continuing to manhandle at Hiruko's shell is washed away by a booming, inflated sense of pride.  _ Retribution _ , he thinks, and has to forcefully swallow down the smug sense of self satisfaction that would have ended up showing in his face. "That can be arranged." He says, left wrist circling absentmindedly in the air as he thinks.  _ Down below, south, fifteen minutes - small village. Young, slender, olive skinned _ . One strike with Hiruko's poisoned sting would suffice, just enough to render the body limp but keep the blood warm. Plenty of time to saw it off without unsightly discoloring. "I'll leave now. Early morning is ideal for cornering drowsy mice." His hands swat at Deidara's grip on Hiruko's head, adjusting it in place.

"I'll leave the rations behind." He speaks, getting inside after removing the packets. The next time he speaks, the voice distorts into the familiar uneven bass. "Do not move. Do not draw attention to yourself." 

***

Deidara’s finally managed to pull his scope off, and it seems he’s done it for the express purpose of rolling his eyes at Sasori. “Yeah, I’m gonna run  _ laps _ around the cave while you're gone. I’ll  _ yodel _ ,” he threatens.

This time an attempt to sit up goes a little better. He manages to prop himself up on his good elbow, though the movement causes his tattered clothes to slip off his left shoulder - there's a glimpse of sprawling tattoo before he snatches the edge of the fabric and yanks it up again. “Don't make me wait too long,” he says, more seriously. “I’m gonna be super bored.”

***

"An hour, maximum." Sasori says, not missing the flash of undetermined markings on the other's skin. He retains it in his mind, stores it somewhere reachable, and begins to move. "You know I don't tolerate tardiness."

At a reasonable pace, he reaches the village ahead of schedule. Finding a target is easy, but one that fits a specific mold gets tricky fast. He dismisses several. _ Too short, too thin, too different. _ It becomes clear to him after some time of observation that his intransigence on the matter is nothing short of indirect flattery for Deidara, and he forces himself out of it. The man near the entrance gates will do. Elite forces, well built but without any protruding muscle disrupting the balance. Unscarred skin. Sasori lets out a satisfied hum deep within Hiruko's shell, then strikes. The guard squirms but doesn't scream, and it is all going oh so smoothly. He's unconscious in minutes. Normally there'd be an ungraceful dragging to a deserted location, Hiruko's tail in a tight knot around a bloody torso, but this is sensitive material. The specimen is carried carefully, unscratched, deep into the woods. Where the real process begins.

Sasori, emboldened by a sense of recklessness that appears to have been contracted contagiously, surfaces from Hiruko to tinker with a few nuisances. Routine procedure. When the other is beginning to regain consciousness, finding himself unable to speak and see, legs and arms numb but brain functioning, Sasori gives himself a minute to contemplate the poor bastard. "You're fortunate, believe it or not." He says, kneeling, hand lifting up the other’s chin - watching the swollen tongue fight to pull out words out of a silenced throat. "The vessel you'll complete has a critical eye for beauty. The cuts for you will be much cleaner."

Half an hour later, the arm is retrieved - the pinkness of the skin not lost, as planned, and stored in Hiruko. The journey back is uneventful. When he reaches the cave, there are still fifteen minutes to spare.

***

“I ran laps around the cave,” Deidara informs him, “and I yodeled.” 

The only indication that last night’s anesthesia has fully worn off is the tight set of his jaw; besides that, he’s in high spirits as always. He struggles back upright, or as close to it as he can manage, and when his eyes complete their cursory sweep of Hiruko’s solitary form his mouth falls into a petulant frown.

“You cut the arm off already,” Deidara pouts. He flops back down, the long streamer of his hair following the motion like a silk flag. “I was hoping you'd bring him back and do it in front of me.”

***

"Performing the entire operation here with your wounds being only a day old in cicatrization is practically sending a ribboned invitation to infection," Sasori says, leaving Hiruko's shell with the arm in his hands and walking past the other to the makeshift working table he'd managed to set up overnight. Nothing grand, but a sanitized flat surface nonetheless. He sits on the floor, in front of it, and waves hand in gesture for the other to pay attention. “Front row,” he says, he _ jokes. _ Sasori’s speech registers as excessively flatlined once he begins to slice a thin cut along the curve line of the forearm, almost as if to compensate his prior over-familiar tone. "While I prepare the base, try and describe the type and range of sensation you still have left in the limb."  

***

When the joke actually  _ registers _ as a joke - which takes a second - Deidara  _ beams.  _ “I’m glad I beat the crowd,” he quips back. He’s quickly distracted, his gaze going catlike and attentive when Sasori begins his work.

“Hm, let’s see. Let me see if I can find a descriptor for how my arm feels.” He wrinkles his nose pointedly. “Let’s start with  _ bad. _ My arm feels fucking  _ bad _ , how about that. How about everything from my shoulder to my wrist feels like it’s actively on fire.” He pauses, momentarily distracted again by the movements of Sasori’s hands. “I can move it. I just  _ haven’t _ , because if I did I’d have to scream.” 

His eyes flick upwards, malicious. “Though, if any of my memory can be trusted from last night - and I’ll admit I doubt that - you wouldn't mind.”

***

Sasori's hand stills momentarily and he wishes he could say it's a choice. He doesn't give the other the satisfaction of his eye contact, putting the scalpel down, focusing on the type of transformative work he's familiar with. Blood and blade. 

"I don't think I've made myself clear." He says, thumb pressing down on the severed arm's wrist - veins lifting to the surface. "Type and range. ‘Painful’ is too general. Stinging, burning, needle points, sharp pangs. Numb, persistent, corkscrew under bone and muscle. Elaborate." A gloved finger pushes flesh apart for a dilator, sinking only to the dermis to expose the network of receptors. Like yarn, unravelled. His playing field. "Similarly, range. Where does the pain come from, how far does it reach. Does your neck, your chest get residual aftershock. Does it end pointedly on the shoulder. Does it start from within, from the bone, to the surface - or backwards. These minor specifications are all things you take-" He stops. He substitutes _ for granted. _ "These are all things you assume I know from just looking at your wound, which is ludicrous. So think."

***

“You’re dodging,” Deidara points out, but he humors Sasori’s expansion on the question. He’s always so long-winded when he gets technical, and Deidara’s first instinct is to roll his eyes and bitch, but - it’s his right hand. He sighs and shifts, resting his head on his shoulder as he looks up at his partner.

“I bet you're getting off on this,” he mutters, still needling, but then: “Burning, mostly. Searing. It fades pretty quickly at the edges of the wounds. It’s not as bad at my elbow, but I think it's because that's where his hand was when he went off.” He wants to close his eyes, but he doesn't want to stop watching Sasori’s hands. “It’s  _ very  _ persistent. And bad. Did I say bad already.”

He pauses for a moment to think. It’s tiresome, cataloguing the sensations like this, and boring. He’s used to just  _ feeling  _ and never bothering to process. “It throbs, and it’s worse at the surface.  _ Way _ worse if touched.” Another pause. “ _ And _ my teeth hurt. The new ones are already cutting.”

***

Sasori listens and retains. It sounds like surface damage, but no harm will come of giving himself and the other a few more layers of leeway. Close to muscle, covering all extensions. A complete integration.

"Better." He says in response to the other’s longform response, absentmindedly shaking his fringe off his face - lifting the radial nerve only slightly, for the other to see. "This will be the backbone of everything. Without this cardinal, none of the auxiliaries matter." For this, he figures, he owes the other a look in the eye. "The sutures for this will be excruciating. I will sedate you for most of it. In the end, however, it's trial and error. And I will ask you to describe pain like you have now. There will be no way to tell if I have succeeded otherwise." 

His gaze travels to the hand once he puts tools down, his head tilting once in a curious tick. "Teething." He speaks. "I don't carry mild soothers. Nothing I can apply will be proportionate for something so small."

***

Deidara snorts and rolls fully onto his back again, looking up at the ceiling. “I wasn't  _ complaining _ about the teeth. I’m used to it. You told me to describe what I was feeling, so I did.” He glances back over, trying and failing to keep a wry smile from curling his lips. “You should be careful, sensei. If you coddle me like that, I’ll get spoiled.”

He stretches his good arm over his head, eager for any movement he can manage without jostling his injuries. Staying still this long doesn't suit him. “And then I’ll be totally unmanageable.” His hand flops back down against his chest. “Anyway. Shouldn't you sleep, if it's gonna be that long of a process? If you fuck up, I’ll never forgive you. That’s the arm I jack off with, you know.”

***

"You  _ are  _ unmanageable. There is no next stage." He says, filling in airtime. The urgency of delivering a casual answer builds up to unimaginable proportions. He blames it on their forced seclusion, on the mountain of hours he's been doing this. One is bound to become exhausted of mental gymnastics. The other's presence, or what it does to his need for secrecy beyond technique reveal and strategy, has nothing to do with it. "I am," He begins, and sits on it, like an imbecile. Quickly.  _ Quickly. _ "I will." 

***

Deidara wrinkles his nose, a gesture that already must be familiar to Sasori by now. “That’s  _ super _ reassuring, sensei, thanks.” Despite his sardonic tone, his expression is attentive. Something is off. “Really, though. You can rest. I’m bitching a lot for attention, but I’m not  _ dying _ .”

He tugs the collar of Sasori’s coat up, til just his eyes peek over the edge of the fabric. “It’s not like I’m fragile.”

***

Sasori's hyperfocus stare is far longer than the usual time he allows himself without blinking. Far longer than what looks natural. "No you are not." He says, brain on autopilot for a minute as his reason returns to him. Slowly but surely, engulfing his overly warm speech pattern and sucking it dry. Still, to his distaste, it doesn't end up doing much to camouflage the nature of the sentence. "Most would have lost consciousness well before sedatives in your state." 

***

Deidara drops the collar enough to stick his tongue out, then snaps it back up again. “I tooooold you. This is the worst I’ve had, but not by  _ too  _ much. You know what's way worse than having my arm stripped? Having to  _ lay _ here all fucking day.” 

He sticks his good hand out from under the cloak, counting off on his fingers while his tongue flaps in silent agreement. “My ass is asleep. My legs are asleep. My back’s stiff. I’m pretty sure my HAIR is just turning into a NEST.” The hand retreats. “If sedatives could help any of that, I’d be  _ begging _ you.”

***

Sasori's teeth click, unconsciously, rapidly. In an impulsive gut instinct he thought was lost to time. "Stop begging." He speaks, sitting up, walking around the makeshift table after he's honed a minor chakra shield over his open work - frozen in time and temperature.  The four steps it takes to reach the other seem miles, but something beyond his control pulls him magnetically.  _ Annoyance _ , he tells himself.  _ Annoyance.  _  His hands, gloves wiped clean, find their way to frazzled strands of blond hair - untangling. "This has been bothering me."

***

“I’m  _ not _ , I was  _ joking _ , I’m not going to beg you for jack sh-” Deidara’s voice dies the second Sasori’s hand slides under the cloak, and his eyes snap to the side, fixed warily on the other’s face. “Hey. Hey.”

There's a gentle tug, then the slide of fingers through his hair. He immediately yanks the collar of the cloak entirely over his head, though all that does is trap Sasori’s hand underneath with him. “What are you- cut it out. Hey. I didn't ask you to do that.” 

His own breathing seems amplified inside the tent of dark fabric. He has no idea what to do, and less than no idea why he’s startled by this at all. “ _ Ow _ ,” he adds, after a particularly graceless movement of the other’s hand. 

***

"You ought to decide your intentions before you let words drop out of your mouth." Sasori's hand stills when the other moves, eyes lidded in the nearest show of outward frustration he has ever shown. He waits. Nothing comes of it. His hands move again, albeit with no visuals, but somehow it works to his advantage. In the end, it is nothing more complex than operating from within Hiruko. The knots come undone under his fingers. Something in his innate necessity to shut the other up and to keep order meet in the middle of this act, sufficiently colliding so that he does not question it. 

***

It’s hard to stay indignant, especially when he  _ does _ have to admit he all but requested this. It doesn't take Deidara long to go pliant under his touch, shivering slightly when the other’s slim fingertips brush his nape. It's too warm to stay under the cloak, and he slowly pushes it down, until it slides off his shoulder and back to pool in folds at his waist.

Outside, it's starting to rain. His arm and side are throbbing, but the noise and the repetitive sensation of Sasori’s hands are gently pulling him further and further from the feeling. A little noise of satisfaction gets away from him. “Mm. Hey, what did I say about coddling me.” He tries,  _ really _ tries, to prevent his shivers from becoming full-body ones. “It's like you  _ want  _ me to be awful.”

***

"I cannot prevent what is in your nature. I don't believe it possible for you to sink any lower, either." He speaks, and it unconsciously slips into a cushioned insulting conversation he never envisioned having. Not in such a setting. The rain's hum is white noise to him. Under his palm the other's shaking is made apparent and he has to restrain the corner of his mouth from pulling into something egotistical or pride-induced or worse - warm. His fingers carry on with an already memorised pattern. Gather, separate, smooth down. 

***

“I can be nice,” Deidara argues. “I can behave myself. I just don't bother, with you.” He tilts his head back against Sasori’s palm, feeling relaxed and alert. “There’s no incentive.”

The slope of the cave floor is advantageous; he can watch the rain from where they're laying, but no water is making it inside. He lets the white noise echo for a while, choosing his next words carefully. Eventually he decides there’s no reason to be delicate. “How’d you lose your hands?”

***

Sasori's hands still in a very obvious, very shockwave-like manner and he doesn't even have time to eat at what's left of his useless sense of imminent danger when it comes to the other. It seemed to have switched off, stupidly,  _ permanently _ , somewhere in between their combat engagement and the night that followed. He remembers making a choice of not caring, not hiding, but all arguments for it are blurred in a panic interference. He thinks about thinking. He doesn't say anything. He removes his hands from the golden hair and scratches one purposefully against a peak of bedrock, forcing a screech sound out of the material and a reaction out of him - leaving a scar on the right palm. "Nothing out of the ordinary." Is all he produces. "Poor strategy in combat. I was young."

***

Deidara rolls over gingerly, wincing the entire way, and reaches out to take Sasori’s hand in his own, running his thumb over the tear in his glove. “They're amazing. Your new ones, I mean.” His finger slides into the rip, brushing against the hardened leather of Sasori’s palm. “I almost didn't notice.” 

His eyes are soft and focused. A subliminal slideshow of the things he could do flashes through his mind - pulling off the glove, pressing his mouth to Sasori’s wrist - but instead he simply keeps holding his palm, one finger moving absently back and forth over the scratch. “It’s incredible work. You really are a master.”

***

There is an imagined hitching of breath that he supposes must have only happened in his mind. After all, there is no breath left in him, nor lungs to stutter. There is also no recoil to Deidara's direct touch, at least none that is automatic. And  _ that _ \- that is new. He watches the other examine the palm of his hand, a few strands of the blond curtain falling over from his shoulder, and keeps quiet for longer than he'd like to admit. In the meantime he tries to identify the pooling of overflowing satisfaction, seemingly seeping from each of his dulled senses. Overwhelming, yet calm. Chaotic but peaceful. His fingers curl slightly, creaking, complaining.  "They are overdue for an overhaul." He says. "I don't believe them to be at the level of my best work any longer."    
His other hand rises to accommodate the other's injured side, gesturing in a petition for restricted mobility. A useful diversion from having to explain his own decadence, he tells himself. "You ought to sleep. On your back ideally, to avoid discomfort."

***

“You suck at receiving compliments,” Deidara tells him. “But I’ll be excited to see the new pair.” 

When he spots Sasori’s hand reaching for his side, his smile turns smug. He rolls his hip into Sasori’s palm, briefly, before settling on his back again. His good hand rises to grab the edge of his top as it slips off his shoulders, keeping it covering his shoulder and chest. “If I have to sleep, so do you,” he announces, “although I’m guessing it wouldn't be effective to ask you to stay with me down here.”

He grins, then closes his eyes. “Look,” he murmurs, “I’m being good, just to prove I can.”

***

The few seconds of contact are enough for him to register the volume of flesh giving under his palm. To his disadvantage, the sensation stores itself at the back of his mind. If there is one thing keeping his system from incessantly recalling the feeling, even in that moment, it's the insistence with which the other keeps covering himself. His gaze travels from collarbone to shoulder, the start of his chest - only one thread of black escaping the other's efforts to conceal. There is an instinct of repulsion now, developed in a matter of  _ days _ , in regards to anything that so much as resembles the treasurer's botched work. But upon closer observation, this is different. "Won't make a difference where I lay my head. The entire surface of this place is unforgivably solid." He responds, a certain level of amusement seeping out of his voice at Deidara's last statement. "You underestimate your acting skills."

***

“I’m being good,” Deidara insists, eyes still resolutely closed. “I’m being perfect. I’m behaving myself.” He cracks one eye to peer sneakily up at Sasori, his mouth working as he tries not to smile. 

“If it doesn't make a difference, you should come down here.” The eye closes again. He wiggles a little to the side, freeing up a completely insufficient sliver of room under the cloak. “So you can keep an eye on my condition.”

***

Sasori follows the other's gestures and forces his shaken incredulity to turn into a far more distant and dignified expression. He cannot under any circumstance risk further exposure, particularly now that his recklessness has bared fruit. The other has been observing, there is nothing to stop him from further discovery but his own enhanced caution. He won't allow himself any further relaxation. Not now. Not with him. He sits up, back to the other as he returns to the operating table. "Your condition won't change overnight." He says. "I'll prepare the base further, then sleep. By morning it will be ready for full integration." 

***

“Mm. Too bad.” Deidara lets the cloak fall and settles in. “I’ll call it a raincheck.”

Outside, the weather hasn't abated. Deidara’s glad he’s in here, sheltered, warm, with the soft noise of Sasori’s work in the background. He pulls the collar of Sasori’s cloak to his nose, discreetly - but it doesn't smell like anything. He sighs. “Don't stay up too late, okay?” 

A yawn breaks his voice - he’s drifting. In the forest below, a far-off chorus of shouts, as a search party finds a body. The noise doesn't concern him, and Deidara sleeps soundly.

***

Sasori replies to Deidara’s request with a wave of his hand. "Sleep." He repeats, and the silence that follows lets him confirm that the other has drifted off. His attention is on the echoed yapping of the medic nins, reverberating throughout the valley and keeping his full focus from being reachable. He stays on guard. At the very least until no voices are distinguishable over the sound of thunder anymore.

He works slowly, precisely, until the light of day is all but gone and resigns himself to waiting. Sat with his back to the cavern's wall he stares at the rain, falling like a dense curtain outside the grotto, and feels humidity reach the joints in his fingers. He looks down, at the self inflicted scarring of his right hand, and hums something to himself. A stern reminder. His hand closes in a fist. He waits for daylight.


	3. 3

When the sun rises, Sasori begins working tentatively, wondering whether to pretend a slow awakening to cement his act. But it would make no sense when the other already knows he rises at the first light. Sasori rolls his neck and moves, allowing himself slow pacing around the cavern once before he makes the last necessary preparations. He listens to slow, steady breathing, and his eyes drift off. Blond hair fans over the rock floor like silk embellishment. All that's left is for the other to wake up.

***

Deidara murmurs, tries to roll over, and immediately hisses and jolts awake when the movement agitates his injuries. Once he’s blinked himself to awareness, squinting in the filtered light, his first words are a demand: “How many hours?”

He’s managing to be stern and pouty simultaneously, and reaches up to tuck his hair behind his ear as if it'll reinforce his questioning gaze. “Because if you got less than three I’m not letting you touch my arm. I know how you run on empty, like, 100% of the time.” He tilts his chin up, imperious. “It's bad for your complexion, too.”

***

"Five." He lies. A believable mid-point, he thinks. The other's self-interested concern is somewhat charming in its irrelevancy and overt childish egoism but he restrains his response to it. The glimpse of gold between Deidara's fingers as he moves his hair is an arduous test of willpower. Sasori walks over to the other, setting down tools. A bowl of rainwater. He prepares the first round of injections, tilting each vial diagonally and in memorised angles - airtight. He doesn't look at the other's face. "You should eat before we begin."

***

“Five is fine,” Deidara allows. He watches the vials as he unwraps another ration packet, absentmindedly transferring morsels mouth-to-mouth. “Don’t sound so serious. You’re gonna make me nervous.”

Despite the complaint, his expression isn't apprehensive in the slightest - there's open excitement in the way his eyes rove over the materials. “This looks complicated.” The packet is balled up and tossed carelessly. “Mm. Well. I leave myself in your very capable, very fake hands.”

He says this instead of _I trust you_ , which was what instinctively bubbled up to his lips - but that isn't wholly true, and on top of that, it would be _tacky_. He won't allow himself that. “My jackoff arm,” he reminds Sasori delicately.

***

"Noted." He says, and lets the vague amusement over the other's words and mannerisms seep out in his tone again. _Stop_ echoes in his mind. _Think._ Sasori gives his undivided attention to needles, straps and forceps. Pincers and blades. Surgical thread, transparent, none of the rust-colored eyesore Kakuzu insists on - _Stop_. "I'll sedate you locally. Your arm should go numb, without registering any pain - but you should remain conscious." His fingers snap at the syringe container, shaking the solution. His left hand reaches around where Deidara's elbow used to be, lifting it slightly, and there's deja vu. "Inhale."

***

“You _say_ that, but I don't know if you're taking this seriously,” Deidara says. “I’m sure I don't have to tell you this, but in addition to being the world’s best sculptor I am also _insanely_ good at masturbating, and my talents are too valuable to-”

Then he registers the command, and breathes in immediately. His train of thought escapes him as he watches the needle, open and inquisitive. “I thought you’d put me under completely. You know, so I don't bug you the whole time. At least until the part where I have to talk about how much excruciating pain I’m in.” He tilts his head, smiling slyly. “What, did you want company?”

***

"Don't flatter yourself." Sasori keeps his gaze  on the lowering level of sedative, not wasting a drop when the needle is pulled back. "Full anaesthesia two nights in a row isn't wise. It desensitizes. The pain wouldn't come back to you in waves, but in spikes." A strap is held by his teeth, pulling taught with his left hand holding down the buckle, wrapping itself tight around the remnants of Deidara's shoulder. "This is time-sensitive. I will wait for the numbness to set in to cut off circulation. Increase the density of your arm's blood flow, making it pause. This is the only time chakra will be involved.” He says, and it's proud. He has never liked his manual work to get interfered by energies which are to an extent beyond his control. No more than what is necessary. “Afterwards I will attach the chain of new empty arteries, one by one."

Sasori looks up at the other, expression stuck in his eternally resting neutrality. His eyes betray it, showing a moderate degree of unashamed morbidity. “Any minute now.”

***

“I _have_ to flatter myself, or who else will?” Deidara protests. “ _You_ certainly aren't pulling your weight on that front.” His gaze lingers on Sasori’s tensed jaw, his teeth on the leather strap, and he indulges himself in imagining them clenched on the tendon of a pale neck instead. Just for a second.

“Labor intensive, yeah?” he notes, once Sasori's explained the process. “You don't cut corners.” He likes Sasori like this. Likes him long-winded and focused and _invested_ in something. He shifts a little as the pressure sends pins and needles up his shoulder, laying his hand over his chest - his hand gives his collarbone a faint, fond kiss. “I had a boyfriend like you. We had the same mentor. He took ages on every single sculpture, and they were all flawless.”

His expression goes thoughtful, but not pensive. He’s as light and unattached in reflection as he is in anything else. “He stopped talking to me. ‘Cause he was a coward.”

***

Sasori listens, not much else to do in the mandatory wait time for sedatives to take effect. "Dead weight." Is all the commentary he allows himself, a summary of the situation the other exposes. At the first sign of limpness, he starts to move. His right hand shapes into a minimalistic seal, redness engulfing it like a slow-lit flame, holding it until there is nothing left coursing through the leftover arm tissue. The countdown starts. "Your style seems clearly incompatible with anyone unable to handle risk." Instruments move expertly in his hands. A clean cut, minimal scarring, minimal tearing, minucious tinkering once exposed to the network of blood vessels. He retrieves the old, the burnt and rotten, and begins replacing. A slow process. _No cutting corners_ , his mind repeats. In the other's voice. In painstaking similarity. He glances up, once, and speaks. "Coward how." Before he can stop himself. He looks back down, at his work. At his lifeline. Too little too late.

***

Deidara’s smile widens. It's only two words, but it’s the most interest in him Sasori’s ever shown. “Mm. He said I was going somewhere he couldn't follow me.” He stretches his good arm out, and the tongue hangs. “I get _now_ that I can't bring anyone with me. But back then, it pissed me off so bad. I can't fucking stand people who do things halfway.”

He tilts the hand towards Sasori; the teeth gleam. “Even without this, though, he would've been dead weight. He told me he wanted to _stay_ in Iwagakure. Teach there, or something. Iwagakure!” He laughs, unkindly. “What the fuck is Iwagakure? It’s just my birthplace. That’s all.” Deidara lets his arm drop. “It exists to be cited as that. Deidara, the sculptor, born and studied in Iwagakure. That’s the only point of them. They should be _grateful_ to me, yeah? For giving them a meaning.”

***

"Lack of vision." He comments, eyes focused on the river of connectors that bind the three central nerves to the rest of the system. After each section is completed, he checks off from the catalogue. _Median, ulnar, lateral, flexor carpi_. Each completed layer, sealed. Once he reaches above dermis, he considers half the task accomplished. Sasori sits up, lowering his instruments, giving himself a moment. The glove in his right hand is removed, the joints circled one by one to avoid jamming in the middle of the delicate work that's yet to come. In all of this, he lets himself bask in the caliber of quality his craft has achieved. He looks up from his flexed hand, fringe partially obscuring his gaze. "Then he was not like me."

***

“Oh, are you setting yourself up as boyfriend material?” Deidara teases. His smile is so broad that it’s narrowing his eyes - then he lets his head fall back, sighing. “Mm. Only the talent is the same. But I still wouldn't take you with me, either.”

His hair’s in his face; he doesn't bother to move it. Even numbed, he can feel the faint tugs of Sasori’s instruments, distant and foreign. He likes how long this is taking.

***

"Don't fabricate things."  He corrects, tugging the glove back on. _Enough leisure_ . "The destination can't be all that pleasant, then. No volunteers."    
Sasori takes one glance at Deidara's excessive smile before he returns to hyperfocus, and one glance is all it takes. A single blond strand sits in a curve following the slope of the the other's nose. Like it's _mocking_ him. He makes a quick gesture out of moving it away from his face, no elongation. Then goes back to carve beauty out of bone and flesh and innards. What he excels at.

***

“It’s the top.” Sasori’s fingertip brushes the bridge of his nose, and Deidara practically purrs at the contact. “Everyone wants to _go_ , but nobody wants to work for it.”

Sasori looks so focused. Deidara can't take his eyes off him. It’s likely obvious that he's staring, and he doesn't care. “I’m going to be famous,” he informs him. “Admired. Known. One day…” He closes his eyes, inhales, lets himself swim in his own certainty. “One day, everyone’s going to look at my work. Everyone’s going to know it.”

Inhale. Exhale. “And you can't transcend the art scene of the entire world without some sacrifice. But nobody else is willing.”

***

"A shame." Sasori begins, entirely too conscious of what the other is referring to. And though he wouldn't ever consider this final goal of his as one he shares himself, he understands the concept. Respects it. “For us to agree.” The final layer of dermis, once sutured, completes the physical process. He makes a final revision, instruments lowered, both hands examining the limb - thumbs running down the inner curve of biceps. Sasori judges it as finished. Visually, it is ideal. Just what he had envisioned. What remains to be seen is the extent to which nerves have properly connected. What remains is the grotesque. “I will release the seal now. Blood will start pumping.” He explains, reaching out to unbuckle the leather strap over the other’s shoulder. “If all flows as it should, then I will proceed with testing sensitivity once the sedative wears off.”

***

“Mm. Everyone agrees with me for a little while.” Deidara’s eyes rove over his restored arm, and when they lift to meet Sasori’s face again, they're challenging. “But then they all pull away, eventually. In disgust, or fear.”

There’s a beat, then he smiles brightly. “Oh well!” He waits for sensation; tries to flex his fingers, patiently. He wishes he could’ve felt Sasori’s hands running over him, moments before. “That's why I just do my own thing. It’s a pain to try to explain it to people, yeah?”

***

"Most people are weak. For both action and conversation." He says, routinely washing up each instrument in the bowl of rainwater. Sasori keeps an eye on the other's arm. Checks for color, for shape, for fluidity of motion once Deidara starts to move. All seems in order.There isn't a clash of color or form, blending seamlessly with skin. Beyond it having actual responsive brain feed receptors, yet to be checked, this is the biggest victory."Disappointment in those who cannot comprehend artistry being taken to its highest form as inseparable from drastic changes in an artist's own existence is inevitable."

Sasori lays his tools to dry, reaching for a set of straight, ever-thin pointer needles. Resemblant of acupuncture, but enhanced. A quiet hum escapes him. He has useless sentimentality to thank for having them at hand at this hour. He had only used them once in his life, on his own procedure, and there was something preventing him from getting rid of them each time. "Once you regain full feeling, let me know." He speaks, head tilted slightly, explorative gaze upon the other.   

***

“Right!” Deidara’s openly excited by his agreement - the teeth on his good hand gnash, and on his bad hand, the broken mouth is struggling to join in. “They don't get it. They don't get that you _can’t_ make good art if you don't push.”

His arm is coming back; it aches. His pupils are contracted, eyes sharp and verging on wildness as he speaks. “How are you supposed to comment on the human condition if you’re _mired_ in humanity? If you're _stuck_ in it? You have to elevate yourself.”

His breathing has picked up. He lets his head fall back to the side, and the smile he gives Sasori is the same open, bestial one as the day before. “That’s when they bail, though.” He licks his teeth. “My arm hurts.”

***

"Good." He says, not forbidding himself a sharp stare into the thinning pupil exposing more of the blue iris. As much as he finds Deidara's moments of hyperstimulated daze loud and noisy, he cannot but find them far more easy to handle than the convoluted messages the other tends to send in a calmer state. In a gentler, familiar tone. He'd rather have sour over puzzling, unbecoming courteous manners."But I will require specifics."

Sasori reaches for the strapped leather, hands it to the other unceremoniously."Bite down on it when I begin." He commands, unpacking the first needle from the set to showcase it. "These were made to provoke reactions. Inserted into certain pointers within the limb, your responses should be of a certain nature or another." The clean shaft of it reflects the light coming in through the grotto's entrance and Sasori looks at it with a very present pride and a distant memory. He thinks. He does not remember what it felt like. He moves his gaze to meet the other's eyes. "I will need you to describe each level of pain. In detail. It is the only way to know whether the integration is complete or barely there." His left hand reaches for the other's wrist, holding it in place, straightening the curve of the elbow. The steel of the needle brushes the skin, inches above the first strand of the ulnar nerve. Sasori's tone before the needle goes in is of last warning. "Describe erroneously and you'll be left with inexact responses. Dull sensation. Not a luxury you can allow yourself, given your craft. Focus."

***

“ _How_ am I supposed to talk to you if I’ve got something in my mouth?” Deidara complains - but then he takes the strap, finds Sasori’s own bite mark on it, and pointedly lines his teeth up with it. He sticks his tongue out again, a brief, playful flash, before biting down.

Sasori’s hand, cold and strong on his wrist, is exhilarating. He thinks he can feel his own pulse throbbing throughout the entirety of his new arm, loud and wild; he wonders if Sasori can feel it through his palm. The needle presses his skin down in a straining point before breaking, and he immediately hisses, fingers curling - the way that Sasori holds his wrist flush and unforgiving against the stone floor is gratifying. His eyes flick up to the other’s face, lidded, waiting for an indication that it's time to begin.

***

Sasori watches the other pull a face and there is something in the succession of it and the amount of times he's already seen it, over and over, that makes it stick. A nonsensical thought crosses his mind that if he were asked one day to summarise the other, that's what it'd be. That and the feral, teeth bared smile. Two sides of the same coin. "I'll remove it during every incision." He retorts, elaborating to counter the other's entitled complaining. Since _when_ are his instructions questioned. "Do not think yourself able to get through this without it. You'd destroy your lips if there was nothing there for you to gnaw on." The needle goes in and Sasori listens, satisfied, at the immediate reaction. Exactly what he's looking for. All that's left are the other's words. "You'll have ten to fifteen seconds to describe each sting. If you waste time, I will repeat it." He says, left hand raised and reaching at the other's mouth - pulling the strap off to unblock his speech. "Now."  

***

The strap is pulled away, and Deidara inhales raggedly. “Deep,” he gasps, and it's not a complaint. “Hot.” Despite the absence of Sasori’s hand, his arm is trembling with the effort of staying still - he’s being good. “It only burns up the center. Pain is -” He breaks off. Swallows. “Bearable.”

***

The equivalence fits. Sasori allows himself a display of cruel contentment. It shows briefly on his lips. "Correct." He says, his hand accompanying the leather back into the other's mouth - then back on a tight grip on his wrist. "Next." And so it goes. By the time the elbow point is reached, Sasori's unconcealed satisfaction is seeping from every fiber of his being. His work is testing well, to perfection. The proof is in the other's desperation - screaming out of his expression every time. In his voice, in the thinning register whenever the pain is profound and sharp.

The next time the leather strap is off, his fingers linger, knuckles over the others mouth. "This will likely be the worst of it," he warns. "Now." The needle dives into the skin of the upper forearm, near enough the central radial for Sasori to look forward to what the reaction will unearth in the other. He holds Deidara’s gaze, expectant.

***

The process is extended torture. In one of the few moments of lucidity he has, Deidara wishes he had asked Sasori _how many_ punctures would need to be made - just so he could have something to count down to, some kind of indication that eventually this would end. As it is, though, each new spasm of pain comes without any mental relief. He can't tell himself it’ll be over soon, because he doesn't know that.

There's only one thing pulling him through the experience: the flickering smiles his vocalized agony continues to pull from Sasori’s lips, over and over again. They're always brief, and Deidara always catches them. Sasori’s _pleased_ in a way that Deidara’s never seen him before, and Deidara is hungry for it.

He’s shaking and pale when Sasori gives his final warning, and he gasps his relief and apprehension against the other’s fingers, both in equal measure. The needle sinks in, his eyes go animalistic, cold sweat beads-

“ _I hate you_.” It’s mindless, meaningless babbling. Deidara is half twisted upright, his good hand planted against the floor, chest heaving. “Fuck- oh, fuck. I _fffucking_ hate you.” He knows he has to find words for it, knows that Sasori’s impatience doesn't have room for his outburst, but his mind’s gone white. All he can think is _let_ _go_ and _stop it_ and he would rather die than say any of it aloud.

From his chest, under torn fabric, there’s a strangled growl.

***

Sasori's smile widens in a manner never before seen. Reservedly maniacal, a strange combination in and of itself, would be the closest words to fit _. Finished_ , he thinks, the heat of the other's spouted rage dull and distant on his fingers - but still there. And there is something in the thought that makes it about more than just the strictly medical procedure. Something that makes it personal. "Go o-" He begins, a stern reminder to elaborate, and then the noise engulfs everything else. Sasori's eyes widen, fixed in the direction of the sound - the core of the other. The needle is retrieved, swiftly but not uncarefully - no prick marks left behind in any of the insertions. "We're done." He says, near instinctive. Near uncontrolled. His gaze does not move from the covered up spot, flashes of that single black line returning vividly to his mind. "We're done."

***

There’s no time for Deidara to feel relief when the pain stops. His arm is buzzing with the remnants of the overloaded sensation, and weighted down with the same dread settling through the rest of his body. He slowly pushes himself upright - there’s a stutter in the middle as the new arm threatens to give out - and lets himself rest in a sitting position, shoulders heaving with exhaustion. His hair is an impenetrable curtain over his face, his left arm folded protectively - almost modestly - over his chest.

“Okay,” he says. His voice is tight and drawn. “We’re done.”

***

The second his eyes drift away they don't stay away long. Sasori puts down the needle with a different kind of care from when he took it out - the care one takes with a catalyst weapon. Who would have thought they could birth yet _another_ horror. He watches the other, gives him time to breathe and for himself time to process. But the projector in the back of his mind doesn't stutter, and the instances of suspicious behaviour - one that he recognises plenty, in his own person - keep rolling. The makeshift shield with his natural arm is, in the end, the final curtain. "Integration is finished. You should have no issues." He speaks, and he dislikes the way his tone has fallen from indifferent grace into a repugnantly soft gutter. Consequently, so have his priorities. His hand raises, it reaches out. It pulls back. "Deidara."

***

“Yeah.” Deidara tests his weight on the arm, finds it sufficient. He’s counting in his head, waiting until he can feel his expression go back to normal. “It feels good.”

There isn't a point, he realizes. There isn't a point to this. He laughs when he senses Sasori’s hand drifting towards him, and Sasori’s own reluctance is overlapped by a warning. “It’ll get mad.”

He lets that hang for a minute. When he’s ready, he tilts his head back to look at the other, blond hair sliding off his face like silk. He lets his arm fall away from his body; the remnants of his robe and shirt fall off his shoulder.

Snarling lips, the faint glint of teeth. The heavy tattoo, weighing it all down. A netted cage of stitches. Deidara’s own mouth, the original, spasms once. He shrugs the rest of his hair over his shoulder, exposing it entirely.

“It probably thought you were trying to hurt me.”

***

Sasori's gaze freezes, immovable, on the contorted curve of its lips - watching the flesh press insistently against the stitches. Out of its own accord. "Sentient." Is all he produces. In his head, he compares. He has seen the mouths in Deidara's hands show plenty of signs of free will, albeit still somehow connected to his senses. Yet somehow this seems on a different level. His level of interest quickly transitions from shock value to specificity. A certain amount of unidentifiable curiosity joins it, and is fed by the movement of golden hair swept over the other's shoulders. _Stop_ , is all he tells himself.

"It recognises threats." Though his instinct is to reach for it, he makes use of the other's advice. He limits himself to observe closely. "The size of it. What you could do-" He continues, thinking aloud, not a good thing to slip into. But if his tongue doesn't betray him it's because his gaze has taken a wide advantage on that front, showing itself no longer clinical. Pure, unadulterated interest invading the blunt coldness of auburn glass eyes. No trace of disgust. "Your finish line." He states as truth, eyes up at the other. “Where no one follows.”

***

Deidara watches Sasori’s face, caution and excitement warring in the hollow of his chest. The fact that Sasori will even look at it at all, for this long, with this much genuine interest - he isn't used to it, and it's thrilling.

“Forget the finish line,” Deidara breathes. “Though, yeah. _The things I could do._ But, no, nobody will even come this far.”

He reaches up and drags his finger between two of the stitches - the mouth strains, lips parting, starved for contact. “Do you know how hard it is to seal demons away? To bind them to something inanimate? It’s bullshit. It takes too long, it takes too much chakra, it’s unreliable.”

He wets his lips. His palms follow suit. By now, anyone from Iwagakure would know what he was saying. It’s old lore. But Sasori isn't from Iwagakure. “People are really selfish, I think,” Deidara continues. His voice is as close to uncertain as it’s ever been. He’s never gotten this far before. “They never think about the other side, yeah? All you have to do is make them a fair offer.”

The mouth chitters, low and echoing.

“There’ll be more, in a few years. Probably starting on my torso. I’m hoping the face will go last.” He manages a laugh, though his eyes are still fixed, vigilant, on Sasori’s reactions. “It’ll consume me, and I’ll die.”

Another pause. It’s incredible to him, the lack of disgust. He can't stop looking at its absence. “I think that’s fair, yeah? My body’s only here to make art anyway.” He’s never said this aloud. The words are tumbling out, unrehearsed and unbidden. “So as long as I reach the top, first, nothing changes. I think that’s fair.” Swallow, breathe, don’t blink. “I think that’s symbiosis.”

***

"Reckless." Sasori says, immediate response to the other's barrage of questions, though still listening. "There is little fairness with such an imbalance of power."

His hand moves. It hovers far enough to avoid a direct confrontation but near enough to provoke reaction. A test. The possibilities of this having gone wrong for the other, even worse than prospected, have been made apparent to him in list format in his head the more the other speaks. And yet. "Though what you describe is entirely the realization of your concept. Any means to an end. And a quick end, at that. At least if you so wished it to be." His neck shifts lightly, clicking in place, eyes fixating in the pattern of the tattoo. "A choice within no choice. Unpredictable." He says, his last word and the familiarity with which it is spoken a testament to how far his need for further detail is overriding his usual mannerisms. "Fitting."

***

Deidara’s eyes are bright and eager, and he can't stop himself from doing one giddy, seated bounce, a brief flourish of excess energy. The mouth, apparently placated by Deidara’s enthusiasm, only growls faintly at Sasori’s approaching fingertips.

“You like it.” Deidara is breathless. “You like it on me.” He leans forward eagerly, catching his weight on his fingertips - Deidara does everything with his fingertips. His chest brushes up against Sasori’s fingertips, and the mouth makes a soft, throaty noise, but doesn't broach any further protest.

“Shizero.” He’s watching Sasori’s fingers against the lips, now, rather than the other’s face. “That’s its name. It doesn't speak, but it’s intelligent.” He pauses for a second, then glances up again, the very corners of his mouth poorly hiding a smile. “It doesn't like you.”

***

"Your philosophy suits it." Sasori says, and cannot be bothered to dilute the phrase any further the second the other moves forward. He stares into the shape of its lips, as if that could somewhat complement his diffused sense of touch that has never been an issue for him. Not for his work. Not for the things that matter. But given the extraordinary circumstances, he cannot help but experience some sort of ghost sense longing. "Shizero." A low hum escapes him after hearing its displeased grunt. "That is evident."

Sasori thinks. He thinks of the process, the immediate consequences - and the delayed ones. He thinks of technicalities. _Does it breathe, does it feel, does it taste._ The fact that it hasn't devoured all of him yet remains astounding. _Is there attachment. If so, on whose part._ Only one question makes it out, rather rhetorical. "You must have earned its trust."

His fingers move over the stitches, gaze returning to focus, tone returning to ice. "Concealing it is a sound strategy. Not only combat-wise, but for the price of your head." His gaze lifts up as his hand pulls away, index and thumb catching a rogue strand of hair - absentmindedly brushing it back in place. "Very few have completed such a seal and lived to tell."

***

Deidara closes his eyes, both hands coming up to touch the corners of Shizero’s mouth gently. “Of course it trusts me. I’m the only person who’s actually tried to _negotiate_ with it in hundreds of years.” There’s a throaty clicking noise echoing through his chest, almost an infernal purr. “I mean, come on. If you were bound to a rock underground for centuries, and one day someone let you out, you wouldn’t care who it was, right?” A finger slides between two stitches, and Shizero accommodates it. “I showed it I wasn’t going to imprison it, and that it was welcome to my body. Why would it fuck me over?”

He looks up again, tilting his head into the brush of Sasori’s hand. “Mm, well. In my hometown, it’s common knowledge what I’ve done. But nobody talks about it, of course.” He grins. “They couldn’t do anything to me. Shizero was more docile in me than it had ever been when bound. And who can say what killing me would do, once it was integrated into my heart? Maybe that would just release it. So I got off scot-free.” He tilts his head, thinking; Shizero echoes the gesture with a hum. “Well. I was utterly and completely ostracized by everyone I’d ever known. But who cares what philistines think?”

***

The other's gesture, minute as it is, yanks him out of his stupor-like state. He retrieves his hand. The other's cards are on the table, and they are there willingly. Though he knows Deidara doesn't yet suspect beyond what he has let him believe, anything could happen. He doesn’t know why this matters. His tone drops lower, beyond ice - to nitrogen. Unfortunately, his words do not match the desired level of distance he wants to force in between."I wouldn't consider it so indiscriminate in its choices. It remains a selfish creature. It wouldn't have inhabited the body of someone it didn't think would survive. Even then-"

He stops. That is precisely the contradiction. "Perhaps it agrees." He says, and the show of interest appears again, and he's getting dragged down to the mud trap he was clawing his way out of. The joints in his right hand rattle restlessly. He has to stop this. Yet the more he fights it, the more he sinks."It agrees with you, it considers your work worthy. Unlike those you shared your life with." For once, his voice register reaches the range he was adapting it to. There is a spared glance to Hiruko, forgotten in a corner of the grotto. "Regardless of where it comes from, if there was nothing there before I wouldn't count it as anything other than a blessing."

Something in him screams for urgency, for distraction. His right hand reaches for the other's arm and he pours himself into a focused, alien state of examination. _Separation separation separation._ His voice drops to flatline. "The receptor flow is quickly matching that of your natural arm. It should be running at the exact same frequency soon."

***

As Sasori speaks, his mouth hums thoughtfully, prompting Deidara to look down at it and raise his eyebrows. “Hm. Maybe it does. Huh, Shizero?” He withdraws his fingers and leans back again, flexing the new arm experimentally. “Mm. It feels good. You did well.”

He stretches the arm out in front of him, examining the nearly-invisible suture line. “I gotta admit, it looks better than I was expecting. I guess that’s what I get for - what did you call it? ‘Getting accustomed to botched craft.’” Deidara lets his arm fall, tilting his head back to regard Sasori again. “I guess I’ll keep you in mind for this kind of stuff.”

His head rolls to the other side, in Hiruko’s direction. “He’s reliable, yeah? Our Sasori-danna .”

***

Sasori blinks slowly at the honorific. Quite dated, and sounding more so with the other's way of speaking. Nonetheless, there is something about it that doesn't quite let it sink to unfitting or inappropriate. A good amount of weight to it, of respect. He hums in discreet approval, and glances at his work before he returns to the task of putting away his instruments - interrupted by the other's reveal. As he does his mind spins replays of the word, over and over, unforgiving. "Keep you in mind." He scoffs. "The nerve of you."

He grabs at the remnants of Deidara’s shirt, makeshift new rags, to dry his scalpels one by one. “In your condition there is nothing preventing us from leaving tomorrow.”

***

“You _like_ my nerve,” Deidara accuses. He shifts forward to lay on his stomach, positioning himself closer to Sasori’s setup; as in all things, he moves on quickly, and now that Sasori’s been informed of his condition he’s entirely unconcerned with his state of undress.

“We could leave _tonight_ ,” he points out. He reaches forward, letting his left tongue explore the newly sterilized instruments. “But I guess you need rest, after putting all that effort into my arm.” His hand sneezes on a pair of forceps. “ _And_ ,” he adds, looking up at Sasori brightly, “you still need to sign your work.”

***

Sasori spares one disapproving glance at the tonguing of forceps, snatching them out of the other's reach. "If there is anyone who needs rest it is you after nerve pointer testing. Blood drained your face pale. I will not have you incessantly complaining about exhaustion during the journey." He speaks, nodding once towards the leftover rations. "Eat. _Then_ will we speak of markings."

***

Deidara exhales loudly, a pointed display of frustration. “I’m not _fragile,_ ” he complains, for the second time in as many days - but he complies, rolling over to reach for the remaining rations. He throws one packet over his shoulder at Sasori, knocking a handful of instruments off the table and onto the floor. “You too.”

With his back to Sasori, the landscape of his back is clear and legible. Muscle shifts under the stitches and bruises as he unwraps the rations. Kakuzu’s hasty work patched over his left shoulder blade leads to a previously unseen injury: an inhuman bite mark, only possible for an unhinged jaw with a Glasgow smile - then, absurdly, a smaller ring of teeth imprints on one exposed asscheek. Deidara glances over his shoulder, poised to say something, but when he notices the trajectory of Sasori’s gaze his planned sentence collapses into a smug grin. “Hidan,” he explains, his tone mock-apologetic. “We’re getting along.”

***

"Right." He says, dry and caustic. The ration packet is forgotten at his feet when he sits up, walking over to the other, looking down at the unsightly trail of stitches on his back. The crooked bite stares back at him like an imprudent, incendiary creature. If there was a way to do so he'd flicker it off the other's body. Like a cockroach. The rest of what the other offers as explanation does not surprise him. How little it unphases him is brought on by what everyone knows - that the zealot has no shame. No standards. Most definitely no self control. But the other. The ugliness of its own work stamped over by such a gratuitous, hideous grin. _Disgraceful._ His hand moves to grab at the other's right shoulder, thumb and index burying down on a pulled muscle - a souvenir from the leather strap. "I suppose you have no preference regarding the placement of my signature."

***

“Owwww,” Deidara whines - but he's smiling, and he rolls his shoulder back invitingly into Sasori’s grip, despite the involuntary wince the movement of the strained muscle incites. “Mm. Yeah, I don't mind.”

He rolls over slowly, careful to do so in a way that doesn't dislodge the other’s hand; the edge of Sasori’s cloak is barely clinging to his hips, and he knows it, and it's clear he knows it. “You can do whatever you want to me,” he chirps. Shizero scoffs, ill-tempered.

***

"Good." He says, and his tone is pulled down into heavy satisfaction almost without him noticing. He does not rectify the register. The sound of the displeased devil brings amusement but it is barely distinguishable for him anymore after the brief second it lasts, his mind busy processing the words of the other. Nevermind intent, just the words themselves. There is an urge for malice within him. "You were not so generous with your offer during the testing." Sasori says, circling an area of skin with his thumb before retrieving his hand slowly enough for the glove's fabric to slide up with it. "What exactly changed your mind is beyond my imagination."

As he walks away from the other, to ready supplies, he lets his fingers crack in place. He thinks of materials, of design, of placement. Of the simple choice of inking he has at hand, and there is frustration. He will have to make the best of insufficient resources. "When you're finished, lay down." He says, gesturing to the flat surface of bedrock. "I'll disinfect the area, but no more. Anaesthesia is still being expulsed from your body, adding to it at this hour is unsound. You will endure it."

***

Deidara purses his lips, the picture of innocence. “During the…? Oh, you mean when I yelled at you.” He flaps his hand dismissively, the gesture breezy and careless. “Don't pay any attention to that. We all say things we don't mean in the throes of physical passion, yeah?”

He readjusts himself, trying to find a way to get comfortable on the rock surface - he’s tired of lying down, but he isn't tired of doing what Sasori says. “I express myself in the moment, and then when the moment is over, that expression stops existing,” Deidara explains, vaguely haughty. “That's the nature of art, and so that’s the nature of the artist.”

He lays down on his stomach, arms folded under his chin, and at Sasori’s warning he turns his head, eyebrows raised. “Who needs anesthesia for a tattoo? Whatever you do can't be worse than what I did to myself.” He props himself up on his elbows briefly, displaying the ink cage ringing Shizero. “I keep telling you you're going to make me spoiled, and you keep not listening….”

***

Sasori averts his gaze in something close to an eyeroll at the other's reasoning. "A contradiction of you to ask for something so permanent on your person, then. Though flaws in your philosophy are hardly surprising."

The fingertips of his right hand press on the other's back in a firm gesture, pushing him to lay back down. The blond hair is equally unceremoniously swept aside. "A demonic pact, quite an elongated show of self expression as well. You'll have to permit me skepticism when it comes to this kind of artistic integrity of yours." A quick wipe down of alcohol on the skin of his shoulder before the needle presses, a thin thread of red chakra conducting the color into multiple, smaller lacerations. "Stay still." He reminds him. "My signature isn't performed like a common marking."

***

Deidara’s brow creases, and he bites his lip, but beyond that there’s no outward expression of pain. “You’re painting with too broad a brush, you know,” he mutters. “The demon isn’t my art, it’s my _assistant._ And _your_ signature doesn’t have anything to do with any of that.”

He exhales softly, settling into the feeling of Sasori’s method. “Works should be signed. For that signature to exist as long as the work exists doesn’t bother me. But you know, it’s like - it’s not just about things being _over_ as soon as possible, or I’d just blow myself up _now,_ yeah? It’s about a transcendent! Moment! Of beauty!” He slaps the ground with each exclamation, and Shizero lets out a muffled protest from underneath him. “Who cares about process? As long as it all culminates in an explosive transformation, it’s all served its purpose.”

He tilts his head, peering up at Sasori critically. “It’s not like it’s hard to understand.”

***

"Its not the complexity of it that I question." Sasori says, sparing a quick glance at the other's express tantrum. His amusement at the groan of protest that emerges from below dies at his lips. The outline of the character is traced, the lines smooth. He begins the filling, tilting the needle slightly, applying deeper red.  "It's the sustainability. And applicability. What qualifies as transformative, what doesn't. Surely, this is transformative. Surely, the invasion of your body by Shizero is as well."

***

“It’s _intent_ ,” Deidara replies impatiently. “If it’s not enacted by me, and it’s not done with the intent of creating beauty, it’s not my work.” He sets his chin back down on his arms, blowing a few strands of hair out of his face. “I don’t have to worry about anything else.”

He traces patterns on the floor with one finger, idly. “You know what I think? I think you think too much.” His finger flies out, flicking a pebble across the room, a tiny explosion of dust. “You need to just let yourself _feel_ stuff and work off that. You’re never impulsive.”

***

Sasori wipes residue off the skin, blinking his gaze up at the small projectile. His hand stills at Deidara's words, nearing the last stroke. "Easier said." Is all he allows himself before burying all other thoughts under a solid block of silence. The only show of outward disturbance being the slight tremble of the chakra thread accompanying the needle. No more. "It is not in my nature. Just like extensive preparation isn't in yours."

His wrist moves circularly to end in a sharp line before the steel point is lifted. Sasori watches his finished work glow in the dying light of day still bathing the cavern. To some extent, though aesthetically immaculate, its added component is not as striking as he would have liked it to be. He blames it swiftly on extraordinary operating conditions, his lack of resources and time. Though he is perfectly aware chakra does nothing but reflect its source’s inner state. “We’re done.”

***

Luckily for Sasori, Deidara is too absorbed in the argument to notice the uncharacteristic unsteadiness of his hand. “I’m just saying I think your work would benefit,” he insists, stubbornly. “But that's on you.”

He sits up almost the second Sasori announces the tattoo’s completion, eager and re-energized. “I wanna see! I wanna see it.” He casts around for his side bags, and when he finds them, withdraws a small hand mirror from one of the outer pockets. It's a familiar object by now, one he pulls out frequently to reapply the thick kohl he wears around his eyes.

Deidara pushes it into Sasori’s hands, fussily positioning his grip at the right angle. “Hold that. Okay.” Satisfied, he flounces back into a sitting position and pulls his hair over his chest, peeking over his shoulder and leaning back to catch the completed seal in the circle of the mirror.

“Ohhhh.” He reaches a hand back; he’s flexible enough to touch the bottom outline of the circle with his fingertips. The ring of color is tight around the clean silhouette of the scorpion, all of it gleaming slightly on reddened, aching skin. There's a long beat as he examines it, silent and focused, and then he suddenly turns around again, bouncing in place. “I love it,” he announces. “I fucking love it.”

***

Sasori watches the other inspect his work in his reflection, following his gaze. "It is but a signature." He says in response to the other’s contentment, and that's his _I'm glad_ . He glances at himself briefly in the small compact before handing it back. Naturally, as many times before, no longer recognising what he sees on its surface. "There is no need for you to take care of it in any special manner. My application makes its healing entirely internal. Focus on adapting to your new arm instead."  
His hands move steady once more, packing up. "As much as it pains me to admit it, you were correct. There is no reason for us to wait till morning." The instruments clatter lightly against each other once put away within Hiruko's hidden storage, sealed within. "Leaving at midnight we should arrive in the early hours. I'm sure a report on our situation is in order by now."

***

Deidara rises and stretches, one palm lazily taking the torn waistband of his pants between its teeth to hold it up on his hips. “Hopefully I can slam someone for their clothes first thing.” He glances over at Sasori as he stretches, all spine and elbows. “We _are_ taking a detour to that village, right? Since Pein wants us coming back with cash, and more importantly because I really want to.”

He tilts his head, his pleading expression shamelessly overblown. “Pleaaase? I wanna test out your work.”

***

Sasori looks over his shoulder and exhales once at the other's begging. "Fine." He says, not in a mood to elongate into arguing. Though with every hour he finds it exponentially harder to camouflage his complete disregard of Pein's interests. The fine line of convincing is crossed, as usual, only through the other's interest in his method and results. Once inside Hiruko, he clicks his teeth - letting the distorted voice echo in the grotto's walls. "No unnecessary slaughter, brat.”

 

When he says his next words, he almost believes them. “I won't pick up the pieces again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey!!!! thank you so much for reading our fic!! i hope the transcribed rp format wasn't too weird, haha.
> 
> not much else to say about this one, besides the fact that we have a LOT of work that builds off this timeline/universe that i hope to slowly post a bit at a time. oh, and you can see some drawings of my deeply cherished shizero headcanons here: https://twitter.com/baph0meat/status/924382188036067328  
> and art of this fic specifically here: https://twitter.com/baph0meat/status/1046809479260594181
> 
> comments and kudos are so, so appreciated!


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